Moonlight Over Paris(2)

The letter from Agnes had arrived a month before, dropping into her lap like a firecracker.

51, quai de Bourbon

Paris, France

12 February 1924

My dearest Helena,

Words cannot express my joy when I received your letter of Tuesday last and was able to read, in your very own words, that you have recovered from your illness and are nearly restored to health. Your account was so terribly moving—I have read it through a dozen times already and it never fails to bring tears to my eyes.

I must commend you for your resolution to effect a wholesale change in your life. The past five years have been so very difficult for you, and you have borne your sorrows admirably—but it is long past time that you thought of your future, and I think any course of action that takes you away from London is a sound one.

I have two suggestions that I hope you will consider. First, I would be very happy if you would come to stay with me in France. You said in your letter that you wished to LIVE—I so love your use of capital letters here—and where better than France for such an endeavor?

Second—and let me emphasize that this is a suggestion and not an edict—if you do come to stay I think it best if you find some way to occupy your days. I live quietly, and I worry that you would quickly find my company boring—but if you have something to do you will be much happier for it. Given your interest in art, and your undeniable talent in that regard, I think you ought to consider a term of study at one of the private academies in Paris. To that end I have enclosed the brochures for three such schools, and it is my fervent hope that you consider enrolling in one of them for the autumn term.

I leave for Antibes at the end of this week—write to me there, no matter what you decide.

With affectionate good wishes

Auntie A


Folding the letter away, Helena looked in the mirror one last time. It was time.

Her parents weren’t expecting her for luncheon; had she mentioned it, during her mother’s visit that morning, she’d have been subjected to a visit from Dr. Banks, whom she had grown to detest, and then guided down the stairs by two maids at the least. Before she could set her plans in motion, she had to show Mama and Papa that she was fit to rejoin the world, and that began with dressing herself and walking down the stairs without anyone hovering at her elbow.

It was only the third or fourth time she’d ventured beyond her bedroom door since the fever had broken and her recovery had begun, and despite herself she felt rather cowed by the number of stairs she had to descend in order to reach the dining room on the floor below. But she had done it before and would manage it again. One step, and another, and finally she was crossing the hall and smiling at Farrow the footman, who looked as if he might faint when he realized she was alone.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered as he opened the door to the dining room. “If they fuss I’ll tell them you helped me.”

The vast expanse of the dining table was empty, apart from a trio of silver epergnes that marked its central leaves, for her parents had chosen to sit at a small table in front of the French doors overlooking the garden. Helena cleared her throat, not wishing to startle them, and braced herself as their expressions of delight turned to concern.

“Helena, my dear—what are you doing out of bed? When I saw you this morning—”

“I told you I felt quite well, Mama, and I feel perfectly well now. May I join you for luncheon?”

“Of course, of course,” her father chimed in. “Take my place,” he offered, pushing back in his chair, but Helena stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

“No need, Papa; look—here is Jamieson with another chair, and Farrow has everything else I need.”

In moments she was seated, a hot brick under her feet, a rug on her lap, and a shawl about her shoulders, her parents deaf to her insistence that she was perfectly warm. Too warm, in fact, and though it was heavenly to feel the sun on her face she began to hope that a passing cloud might offer some respite.

“Are you quite comfortable? Shall I ring for some broth? And some blancmange to follow?”

“Oh, goodness no—I’ll have the same as you. Dr. Banks did say I might resume a normal diet.”

“I know he did, but you must be cautious,” her mother fussed. “Any sudden change—”

“I hardly think a few mouthfuls of trout and watercress will do me in.”

“Let the girl eat in peace, Louisa. She’s been cooped up in this house for far too long,” her father insisted. “Past time she returned to the land of the living.”

They ate in silence, companionably so, and in no time at all Helena had finished everything on her plate. She cleared her throat and waited until she was sure she had her parents’ full attention.

“I have something to tell you. The both of you.”

Her mother set down her fork and knife, her face suddenly pale, and folded her hands in her lap. “What is it, my dear?”

“I’ve been thinking about what I ought to do. I’m feeling ever so much better, you see, and I should like so much to go somewhere warm, perhaps—”

“Splendid notion,” said her father. “I’ve always been partial to Biarritz at this time of year.”

“It is lovely, I agree, but I’ve decided to go to the C?te d’Azur. To stay with . . . well, to stay with Aunt Agnes.”